“Oh, blessed Ejarat, what am I thinking?” She scrambled to her feet, assisting me to rise at the same time, then curtsied. “Allow me to summon a bath for You.” She curtsied again, paused as if tempted to do so yet another time, then hurried out to take care of it.
“It was hard on her,” Sondra said, sitting again on her sofa, rubbing Vesno’s ears, “being locked out all this time. Especially after Conrí acted so crazed, waving that knife around and kicking everyone out. I did manage to talk them out of knocking the door down. You’re welcome.”
“How long has it been?”
“A little over eighteen hours. But hey, You look considerably less like a corpse now.”
“Thank you, Lady Sondra. I wish I could say the same for you,” I replied with a lift of my nose.
She snorted, surveying her bedraggled appearance. “Yeah, holding vigil and all. Maybe I’ll go have a bath now, too.” She stood and cast a glance in the direction of the bedroom. “Conrí is still alive, also?”
“Yes. Sleeping hard. I think he missed a lot of sleep.”
“No doubt. He was out of his mind worrying about You.”
She seemed to be asking a question, but I didn’t have an answer, so I nodded. “Thank you, Sondra,” I said instead, “for being there, in that place, with Me.”
“I didn’t exactly have any more choice than You did.”
“Nevertheless, I appreciated your … companionship.”
She gave me a crooked grin. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“For lack of a better term.”
“Fair enough.” She swept a gallant bow. “It was an honor. But let’s not do it again, shall we?”
I had to laugh. “Agreed.”
“Your Highness?” Ibolya, makeup repaired and composure restored, glided in. “Your bath is ready.”
Sondra gave me a cheerful salute. “And I’m off to mine.”
“One moment,” I told Ibolya, and with a thought to Vesno, I took him to sit with Con, easing open the door to the bedchamber. Vesno, heeding my mental instructions, climbed gently onto the bed to lie next to Con, so he wouldn’t wake alone.
Finding Ibolya in my bathing chamber, I shed Con’s shirt, stepped into the steaming tub, and sank in, sighing at the bliss of hot water. It seemed so quiet, to bathe with only Ibolya there and no Morning Glory, none of my other ladies. Good thing I had no intention of donning my normal costume, as the two of us would never have been able to manage without more help.
“Does Your Highness have a preference in gowns today?” Ibolya asked, her thoughts clearly going in the same direction. “I have not yet sent for Lady Calla and the others, but I can.”
“No, don’t bother.” I rolled my neck on the edge of the tub, watching her bustle about. “I’ll be going to the temple as soon as possible.”
“You will—I mean, we will, Your Highness?”
“Yes.” To Calanthe’s center, the wellspring and the vortex of Her power and the rapidly collapsing ties that bound Her to the physical world. I sensed them keenly now, as if my time away—the brutal ripping of my roots and blood-fueled grafting of myself back into Her—had made me consciously aware of what I’d always taken for granted. Now that I knew myself as a person away from Calanthe, I recognized where I ended and She began. Though it wasn’t a clear demarcation, so perhaps grafting was the wrong analogy. An extension of the goddess. Our connection flowed in a circle, and I was both part of Calanthe and my own person.
“Yes,” I said again, recalling myself from riddles I might never fully resolve, “I must travel to the temple immediately.”
“Surely not today, Your Highness?”
“The sooner the better. I have to address the problems with Calanthe, and I can’t do it from here.”
“Will a night make that much difference, Your Highness? It will be sunset in another hour or so. And You’ve only just arisen from Your sickbed and a terrible trial. You look so much better, but … perhaps go a bit slowly?”
She had a point. “Tomorrow morning, then. Tonight I’ll show Myself to the court.” If Ibolya had been that distressed at thinking me dead, when she had better reason to hope than many, then I needed to reassure everyone. Calanthe’s thrashing wouldn’t be helped by the people’s panic.
“Conrí held court yesterday and let it be known that Your Highness had returned to the palace.”
“Ah.” That’s right—even in my near-death delirium I’d noticed his handsome clothing, wondering if he’d appeared formally. Would wonders never cease. “I’ll meet with Dearsley, too, do what I can to set things to rights. I’ll require a gown, but not underpinnings. Something unstructured—no corset or other padding. I shall go as Myself.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Ibolya murmured. “The black wig?”
“Did you bring it from Cradysica?” I asked, startled by the thought.
“Yes, Your Highness. None of Your things were damaged.”
No, just me. Don’t think about it.
“No wig,” I declared. I intended to grow out my own hair—vines or flowers or sticks, or whatever it would be—and until then, I’d go bald proudly. If I were You, I’d just wear my crown on my bald head and let the critics go fuck themselves, Sondra had said. Unfortunately, I lacked a crown to put on my bald head, actually now quite fuzzy with soft green growth. I’d last seen the crown of Calanthe with my other jewels, tossed onto the heaps of treasure piled on the steps of Anure’s obscene throne, as if he were a dragon of old, hoarding every bit of glitter and keeping it from the world. “We’ll have to devise a crown.”
“I have ideas, Your Highness.”
“You always do.”
* * *
Ibolya seemed unsurprised when I refused the body makeup. The patterns of petals, leaves, bark, and thorns shimmered over my skin in subtle counterpoint to the dramatic crimson-black of the gown Ibolya brought out. Scarlet as fresh roses—or new blood—the pleated gauzy silk fanned over my breasts from narrow straps that otherwise left my shoulders bare. A crisscross of silver-edged strips of silk gathered the fabric over my ribs and waist asymmetrically, cupping my hips on one side.
From there, panels of bloodred, sheer black, and crimson silk swirled around my legs, parting to my hips as I walked. Gauzier scarves in the same colors floated from one shoulder, balancing the asymmetry of the gown. The fine silk floated around me like a mist of sunset fire, backed by the surcease of night. Yes, it suited my mood exactly. Perfect for someone arisen from the dead.
Ibolya did my makeup in rose and charcoal, mild and smoky. We discussed my feathery, flowery lashes and brows at some length, and finally elected to emphasize their natural colors in deeper shades of the same. We decided against false lashes, and added only a few small jewels, mostly as a nod to what my people expected to see.
“We just need jewelry and something of a crown,” Ibolya mused. “Let me—”
The door flew open, a shirtless Con glowering in the doorway, barefoot and wearing only his black leather pants, rock hammer in his hands. Vesno charged past him, far more cheerful, blazing a joyful circle around me and then setting to sniffing out every corner.